It's Not Over
by Linwe Elendil
Summary: Bond goes on his first mission after the events of CR. Still caught in the backlash of his lost love, can he manage to survive? Or does he really want to? Spoilers. Sequel to Snow White Queen. COMPLETE!
1. New Mission

Disclaimer: Still don't own Bond. I don't even own all of the movies – just two…

This story is a continuation of "Snow White Queen", but as this one is not a songfic (and is the start of something larger) I thought I would post it separately.

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Bond hid in the dense foliage of the jungle. It had rained recently, giving a more exotic air to the trees around him. He had already made a note of where his target would appear, and now the wait began.

In the three weeks since Vesper's funeral, he had tried to keep himself busy, though there wasn't much to do. Mr. White was being interrogated, but M wouldn't let James anywhere near him. She had claimed it was because the mess of his resignation still hadn't been cleared up, but Bond knew better. She was worried about his seeming lack of emotion, and likely didn't trust him to be in the same room as White. Not that he could blame her, after the state in which he had delivered the prisoner. It didn't help that she had ordered him to see a psychiatrist – common procedure, she had claimed, after undergoing severe and/or prolonged torture.

James was annoyed by her implied lack of confidence in him, and had taken to avoiding her office. Instead, he sent daily emails to her, asking about his work status. She had finally replied to one of them in two succinct sentences. "Leave me the hell alone. I'm trying to work." He was given a new mission the next day.

It consisted of the live capture and transportation of a known fugitive. Miles Standing was a British terrorist who had taken to hiding in Panama – where he clearly hoped MI6 wouldn't find him. Bond was more inclined to believe that M didn't care much about the man. His attacks had never been successful, and he hadn't tried anything recently; he was, in essence, quite a small fish. But this small fish had just been made Bond's assignment.

When James had read the details of his mission, he had written a scathing email to M, telling her in no uncertain terms that if she was going to treat him like a child, than she should just consider his resignation final. It took all his self control to stop himself from pushing the "send" button. Instead he had erased it and sent, "Hardly the big picture."

Her reply? "I know who you were. Now I need to find out who you are." James shook his head as he read the post-script. "One piece, Bond. Preferably not bleeding." He was right – she didn't trust him.

_The hell with it_, Bond had thought. He set off on the mission, knowing that if he wanted a future at MI6 it was M, alone, that he had to convince of his mental state. So now he sat in the jungle, waiting for the near-worthless mark to cross his sights. _I had more exciting assignments when I was still in training_, James thought as he lay on the jungle floor. He took a moment to smear some of the local dirt on his already camouflaged skin, and wished again that he had thought to bring his brown contact lenses. Ice blue eyes were easily noticed, and not easily hidden.

A sudden sound of crunching footsteps through the fallen leaves made Bond stare at the ground. He wouldn't risk looking at the man until he was much closer. Waiting patiently, James focused on keeping perfectly still. His tranquilizer gun was already in position – all he had to do was fire, and Standing was his.

The footsteps were still 8 feet away when he felt the muzzle of a gun pressed up against his neck. "Take your hands off the gun. Slowly…" Bond did as he was told, suppressing his surprise. "Now stand up."

He stood, and found himself face to face with the target. Standing had a triumphant smile on his face as he nodded to someone over Bond's shoulder. "Good work," he said simply.

"Turn around," the gruff voice commanded. James had to look up to see the man's face – he had to be at least 6'7". _How could I have missed him?_ Bond wondered. "Hands up," the large man commanded, brandishing a machine gun. His finger was dangerously close to the trigger.

Bond raised his arms slowly. _This just got a lot more complicated._ His mind began to compute possible avenues of escape, when the butt of the machine gun was slammed into the bridge of his nose. Bond gasped involuntarily and fell to his knees. Before he could bring his hands up, the big man hit him again – this time on the back of the head – and everything went dark.

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The adventure will continue soon!

Reviews, anyone? ;-)


	2. Rude Awakenings

Disclaimer: Same as usual. Only the new characters shown are mine.

Special thanks to Grazia D. for all her help! ;-)

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James opened his eyes slowly. Pain assaulted him from multiple points, but he forced himself to ignore it. He shook his head slightly to clear his thoughts, and took stock of his physical condition. His mouth felt dry, and there was at least two days stubble on his chin. He hadn't been hit that hard, and came to the conclusion that he must have been drugged. His nose was broken – no doubt from the blow it had been dealt – and judging by the size and nature of his headache (and the fact that his eyes refused to focus) he probably had a minor concussion as well.

Bond realized he was still dressed in his camouflage, and had been set none too gently on a concrete floor. Both his wrists and ankles were bound, but there was no gag. He tested his bonds and his muscle status by straining against the ropes. A few moments later he relaxed – slightly disappointed. He had been tied rather well; the rope wouldn't give an inch. And his muscles felt tight, but he expected nothing less after lying like a trussed up chicken for two days.

The room he was in was made entirely of concrete, and it was small – about eight feet square. One lamp hung from the center of the ceiling; over a single chair. James felt a cold sweat begin to bead on his forehead and upper lip. Memories of Le Chiffre's torture surfaced in his mind as he stared at the chair.

_Calm down_, Bond told himself. _How do you expect to get out of here if you can't even think clearly?_ He took a deep breath that caught for a moment in his throat, and felt himself begin to relax. He knew the odds were slim that he would ever be tortured in such a way again, but his anxiety refused to completely dissipate. At least it was down to a manageable level.

Biting his tongue lightly – to produce saliva – Bond began to run it around his mouth and lips. He strained against the ropes again, this time only to further awaken his muscles for whatever lay ahead. James grunted as the rough strands dug into his skin, but felt gratified as the pins and needles in his hands and feet began to subside. He focused back on his physical condition, trying to determine the source of every spasm of pain he was feeling.

There was his headache (from the possible concussion), broken nose, lower back (probably caused when they dropped him on the floor with his hands tied behind him), wrists and ankles (from the rope), upper left arm (probably where they'd injected the drug), and an uncomfortable pressure that reminded him he had not used a bathroom for a few days.

_Not too bad_, he thought to himself. _I could fight if I had to._

Bond spent the next few minutes planning ten different escape scenarios – based on the number of men that would come through the door, how many would be armed, whether or not he would be placed in the chair, and the possibility of breaking it to create a weapon for himself. He mentally catalogued all his options, and satisfied that he had not missed anything, he shifted onto his right side so he faced the door. His headache did not appreciate this sudden change in position, and Bond realized he could not afford to be hit in the head again – it would render him helpless in an instant. He added this into his scenarios, and then settled down to wait.

xXx

Bond didn't know how long he had been sleeping – nor did he even remember falling asleep – when the slamming of a heavy door just outside his cell jarred him awake. Digging his fingernails into his palms to bring himself to full alertness, he waited. The door closed again, and he heard the sound of a key being inserted into the door before him.

Only one man entered – the large one who had broken his nose. Bond gritted his teeth as he thought of the many painful things he'd like to do to the gorilla before him. But he remained mute as the man entered and walked straight for him. James caught sight of a small corridor just outside his cell that led to the heavy door whose slamming had woken him. _Two doors to get out of here,_ he thought – and his spirits fell a little._ That will make things complicated._ He ran his scenarios again, but nothing helpful came to mind.

When the large man reached Bond, he lifted him easily and tossed him in the chair. James grunted as pain spasmed through his head, but said nothing. Rough hands checked him over – his broken nose, arms and legs, even his ribs. Bond could think of plenty of reasons for this; none of them good. At best he was assessing his prisoner's strengths. At worst, deciding how to inflict the maximum amount of pain. Still, James said nothing.

"So, Mr. Bond, did you enjoy your rest?" the voice was gravelly and deep, with a slight Irish accent. That was unexpected.

"I think the service leaves a bit to be desired," James quipped back. Irish (as James had decided to call him) laughed – a grating, pneumatic sound that spoke of years of smoking.

"They told me you were funny." The man was still looking him over, and Bond winced when the large hands found the goose-egg on the back of his head.

"They?" Irish stopped, and his eyes met Bond's for the first time since he'd walked in. They were a deep emerald green – sharp and cold.

"_You_ don't get to ask questions, Mr. Bond." James nodded his understanding.

"I do have one last question, however," he said slyly, "and it is vitally important."

Irish grunted; a warning look in his eyes. James smiled.

"Where does one go to the bathroom around here?"

Irish said nothing, but his meaty fist flew up and hit Bond on the side of the head. James felt himself falling and cried out as he hit the floor. _Perfect_, he thought as the pain assaulted him. _First that bastard hits me on the back of the head, and now the left side. The floor seems to have taken care of the rest…_

"Such wonderful hospitality," he managed to mumble before passing out again.

* * *

_Clears throat._

Reviews?

Thanks in advance!


	3. Small Favors

Disclaimer: Do I really have to keep doing this? I don't own Bond. Duh…

Matteic, is this chapter long enough for you? ;-) My DSL was down for a few days, so I just kept writing until I could post! Enjoy…

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_Three days in hell, _Bond told himself. _If I can survive this, I can survive anything._

At least, Bond guessed that it had only been three days since the "procedures" had begun. Every time it was the same process. He would be rudely awakened by Irish – usually with a rough slap across the face – and find himself tied to the chair.

The first day, Irish had focused on his torso as he hit Bond repeatedly in the chest, stomach, and back. The pounding continued until Bond had coughed up blood and passed out again from the pain. At least, he assumed that's when Irish stopped.

The next time he woke up, it was his arms and shoulders. Irish tested them to their limits; even accidentally (as he claimed) dislocating Bond's left shoulder and breaking a few of his fingers. It was the setting of his shoulder that took Bond back to the darkness, and he was grateful for the respite.

On the third day, Irish worked on his legs – beating them with a metal pipe. Nothing broke this time, and Bond's cries were fading as his voice evaporated. One strong hit to the base of his spine caused him to pitch forward off the chair. Bond tried to angle his body so as to take most of the hit on his right shoulder, but he couldn't remember if he'd been successful.

Through it all, Irish never asked him any questions. If he spoke, it was in explanation of Bond's anatomy or muscle strength; but most of the time the big man merely grunted with effort.

On the fourth morning, Bond awoke to find Miles Standing seated in front of him. Despite the pain that he felt – quite literally in every inch of his body – Bond wanted to reach across the distance separating them and strangle the man; hang the consequences. Standing gestured to the ground between them, and as James looked down in to the bucket of clear water before him, he realized his hands were free. One more glance told him his feet were unbound as well. His mind began working furiously on escape, until Irish cleared his throat. Bond looked at the man, who wagged his finger in the spy's direction. The message was clear. Bond's eyes narrowed, and focused back on the bucket. _I'll play their game for now_, he told himself. James didn't want to admit that the real reason he didn't try to escape immediately was that he was in no shape to take on both men at the moment – not to mention any other guards that might be waiting outside.

After another five seconds hesitation, Bond reached down and grasped the bucket. Lifting it into his lap, he scooped copious amounts of the surprisingly cold liquid in his hands to drink greedily. Once his thirst was satisfied, he began to splash it on his face and neck, reveling in the relief it brought to his various cuts and bruises.

"So, Mr. Bond…" James looked up at Standing, the sudden movement causing a muscle in his neck to spasm. He reached up to rub the knot with one hand as he placed the bucket back on the floor. His captor continued. "I have to admit that I'm flattered by your presence here. I didn't think I was important enough for MI6 to send a 00 after me." He smiled. "Why were you sent to collect me?" He tried to appear casual, but James could tell he was intensely curious.

"You waited three days to ask me that?" Bond replied. After all the screaming he had done, it hurt to talk, but he continued. He wanted answers, too. "Why the anatomy lesson?" He jerked a thumb toward Irish. Standing looked over at the large man, confusion appearing briefly on his face. Then he smiled.

"Oh, that. I was just doing you a favor, Mr. Bond."

"Really?"

"Yes," Miles replied. He stood and paced the room as he explained. "You see, I have become a big fan of the sport called volleyball. You know it?"

James nodded slowly, wondering where the man was going with this.

Standing nodded back. "I loved watching the sport so much that I hired the best coach available – determined to learn how to play." He stopped, and rubbed his forearms. Crouching in front of Bond, he continued. "Do you know the first thing we did?" James just stared at the man. "We bumped the ball back and forth to each other for three hours." Standing rolled up his sleeves, and Bond began to wonder if he had a few screws loose. Holding his arms before James, Standing said, "You really should have seen the results. My arms were black and blue for days. I nearly had the coach killed – until he explained himself." Standing resumed his seat. "You see, he told me that because my arms had taken as much punishment as he could offer in that one day, they would be less likely to bruise in the future. I could play the game without fear of pain as my arms had become accustomed to the abuses they would suffer.

"So," Standing rolled down his sleeves again, "As I knew you were relatively knew to 00 status, I thought you could use some training. Just a small favor, Mr. Bond. Nothing more."

Bond set his jaw. "Remind me to return the favor someday," he curtly replied. Standing laughed.

"We'll see, Mr. Bond. We'll see." He clapped his hands. "Now, back to business." Miles leaned forward in his chair. "Why were you sent to collect me?" Bond stared back at the man, betraying nothing in his ice blue eyes. "I know you weren't here to kill me – that much was obvious by your choice of weapon. But why the interest in me at all?" Bond remained mute. Standing sighed. "Do you really want to go down this path?" he asked. "You already know what we can do to you."

_Three days in hell_, James thought to himself, _and I survived it._

"You know," Bond began, keeping his voice quiet – he didn't want the men to know he was gaining strength by the minute, "there's always been a fundamental flaw with the concept of torture to receive information."

"And what's that?" Standing sat back and casually crossed his legs – confidence building in his eyes.

James allowed himself a small smile as he raised his head. "If the one being tortured knows his enemy requires information, all he has to do to ensure his survival is _not_ say anything."

Miles' face fell into a dark scowl. He thought for a moment before continuing. "There are other places I can get the information I want, Mr. Bond. I thought I would give you a chance to earn your freedom, but you are apparently as stubborn as they say." He smiled again as he leaned forward. "Is it true you were willing to let a woman you loved die rather than give someone the information they wanted? Even when subjected to extreme forms of torture?"

James felt his stomach tighten, but he said nothing. How could this man possibly know about Vesper? In that moment, a world of possibilities opened in his mind, and they set it reeling. The man before him had to be working for Mr. White's organization. It was the only way he could know about what Le Chiffre had done to him. _White must have started talking, and given Standing's name._ He chuckled. _Well… apparently M trusts me after all._ This thought gave Bond a new sense of determination as he focused back on his target.

Standing was not amused. "You're laughing, Mr. Bond." His teeth grated together. "You find something humorous in that memory?"

"No," Bond replied, still smiling. "I just got a glimpse of the big picture."

Furious, Miles kicked over the bucket – spilling the precious water, as he stood and grasped Bond by the front of his shirt. The two men stared each other down, but Bond took advantage of Standing's hesitation and head butted him squarely in the face. James stood as Miles fell, blood pouring from his broken nose. But before he could move two steps, Irish was there. One solid punch to his neck sent James sprawling on the ground. Irish helped Miles to his feet, offering a handkerchief. He brushed it aside and looked down at the semi-conscious Bond.

"Now," he said coldly, "The real fun will begin."

xXx

The next time Bond opened his eyes, he was prostrate on the floor, bound tightly again. He looked around, but things were as they had been. One chair, one light, nothing more. The bucket was gone, but James forced himself to ignore his thirst as he ran over his old escape plans again. He didn't realize how lucky he was, having awoken before Irish's return. But he didn't have to wait long to find out.

Bond heard the first heavy door open and turned his body to get a better look. When Irish opened the second door, he pushed a stretcher into the room. The bed was too long to fit in the space between the doors, so once it was clear of them, Bond watched as Irish pulled a key from his breast pocket and locked them both. He never noticed the spy's observations.

_Got you_, James thought. He lay as still as possible and closed his eyes as the big man lumbered over. Irish turned Bond onto his stomach as he undid the ropes around his wrists and ankles. Rolling Bond onto his back again, he slipped one arm under his neck and the other under his knees – preparing to put him on the stretcher. He never got the chance.

Throwing an elbow into Irish's neck, Bond watched in satisfaction as his captor's eyes widened and he dropped Bond, clutching at his own throat. Irish was still struggling to breathe when James followed that up with a knee to his nether regions. The big man doubled over, and Bond grasped his head – crashing his knee into Irish's face.

Irish straightened in reaction to the pain, but he overcompensated and collapsed on the gurney behind him as he passed out. Bond quickly bound him with the bed's restraints and started searching through Irish's pockets. He grabbed the key, but found a few other useful items as well. Gun, pocket knife, syringe, brass knuckles, even a grenade…_ This man is better armed than Russia during the Cold War!_ Bond took it all, secreting the items in the pockets of his torn camouflage suit. He paused briefly to check that the gun was loaded, knocked a bullet into the chamber, released the safely, and headed cautiously toward the door.

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;-) Like it? Let me know! 


	4. Escape

Disclaimer: Don't own anything but the computer I'm typing this on. Wait… I don't even own that. It's my roommate's. :-P

A _**very**_ special thanks to Grazia D. for her help in this chapter. I think I managed to pull it off!

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Bond bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself alert as he limped to the door. Every muscle ached, and his head throbbed – but freedom beckoned. Looking back one last time at Irish, he slid the key into the lock of the first door. When the door creaked open, James winced at the noise, but Irish didn't move. _Out cold_, he thought. Bond smiled in satisfaction, wishing for a moment he could have dealt Irish a few more blows. But, reminding himself of his priorities, Bond ignored the large man strapped to the gurney as he stepped into the space between the doors.

He made sure to lock the first door securely before placing the key into the second. That was when he noticed he was shaking, and had broken out in a sweat. He paused a moment, rethinking his plan. Clearly he was weaker than he supposed – adrenaline was likely the only thing keeping him on his feet. For a second, he began to wonder if he should attempt to grab Standing or escape and come back for his target.

A cold calm swept over Bond, and – resolving to capture the man now – he reached up to turn the key. Holding the gun ready, he cracked the heavy door to assess the situation outside what had been his cell. There was a long windowless hallway, illuminated merely by a few bare bulbs that hung 7 or 8 feet apart. Bond couldn't see any cameras, but that didn't mean they didn't exist. About 40 feet away, another door waited. _No guards,_ James thought to himself. _Either Standing is cocky, or he just assumed that Irish would be enough protection. Then again, he could have guards on the other side of that door._

Bond cautiously opened the door. A guard stood at attention just to his left, the sound of the door causing him to look over. Surprise registered on the man's face in the second before Bond hit him, and he slid – unconscious – down the wall. James groaned and fought the impulse to cradle his right hand. Irish had broken two of his fingers, and they throbbed now from punching the guard. _Dammit_, he thought, inspecting his still shaking hands – _This is not going to be easy…_

Switching the gun back into his right hand, James scanned the compound. Including the one he had just escaped, there were only three buildings, and they were small. _Standing couldn't house many guards in this place_, he concluded. There was a helo pad sitting in the center of the compound – currently occupied by a UH-72A Lakota Light Utility Helicopter. Bond smiled. _I've been wanting to fly one of those._

He crept cautiously toward the building on his right. It was smaller, and therefore more likely to contain a few offices – not the guard's sleeping quarters. The guard at the entrance was facing away from the spy, and Bond dropped to the ground, crawling in the dirt as he approached. Every movement caused agony to spread through his left shoulder and bruised calves, but James forced the pain behind a growing wall of adrenaline, and continued.

When he was within fifteen feet of the guard, he jumped up and ran the distance, shoving the barrel of his gun into the soft flesh under the man's ribs. Bond nodded toward the man's heavy assault rifle.

"Drop it," he whispered. "And don't even think about sounding the alarm." The guard dropped his weapon and raised his hands in the air. Bond gripped the man's left shoulder as he moved to stand behind him. "Now, take me to Standing." The man turned slowly around, and Bond followed behind – not wanting to admit that he was leaning slightly on his captive. He just hoped the guard wouldn't notice.

They entered the building and turned left down a short corridor. The door at the end was nondescript, and Bond noticed the security camera in the upper right-hand corner. Standing knew he was coming.

"Open it," he hissed. The guard complied, and as the door swung inward, Bond hit him roughly on the back of the head with his gun. The man collapsed, and James found himself catching the edge of the door to remain upright. He used his left hand, which caused agony to spread through his recently dislocated shoulder.

Miles Standing sat calmly at his desk. "Ah, Mr. Bond. I've been waiting for you to arrive." He checked his watch, his demeanor showing no signs of panic. Bond let his mind sift through possible reasons for this as the target spoke again. "It took you rather longer than I anticipated, but I can see you are somewhat the worse for wear, and will take that into account when I make my report."

James didn't take the bait. "Up," he barked. Standing complied, raising his hands for good measure.

"Really, sir; just how do you intend to get out of this compound? There are ten guards waiting for my signal." Bond held the gun steady, his aim never wavering from the man's head.

"Outside," he commanded, and Standing shrugged.

"If you insist." As the target walked past him, Bond gripped his shoulder hard, and dug the gun into his ribs.

"And don't try anything." They reached the doors, only to be greeted by ten heavy assault rifles. Bond kept his position behind Standing. "Tell them to drop the guns and face the wall of the building. Standing did, and the men complied. Bond began to lead Standing in a backwards walk to the helicopter, always keeping the guards in sight.

As soon as they had boarded, the guards picked up their rifles and ran toward the helo pad. Bond pulled the grenade from his pocket, ripped out the pin, and tossed it out the door. For a moment, Standing looked scared. "Where did you get that?"

"From our mutual friend," Bond replied, sarcastically. "He was very well armed."

Standing frowned. "Hmm… A simple gun was all he was instructed to carry. I shall have to speak to him about that."

James ignored him, and the helicopter lifted off from the ground. They had been in the air for seven seconds when an explosion rattled the ground below. Standing tried to assess the status of his guard detail, but they were flying out of range. Looking back at his former captive – but unwilling to yet think of himself as a prisoner – he smiled. "You must feel terribly clever, Mr. Bond. But how, may I ask, do you plan to stop me from 'interfering' during the trip? You don't really think I'll sit here quietly, do you?" As he spoke, Standing reached down with his right hand to the pistol waiting beneath his seat.

"As a matter of fact, I do." In one fluid motion, Bond pulled out the syringe and stabbed it into Standing's shoulder, emptying its contents into the man's veins. Miles' eyes widened in shock for a moment before he slumped limply in his seat. James reached over to check his pulse. It was thready, but Standing was alive. In retrospect, Bond realized he was lucky it turned out to be a sedative after all. _M would not have been happy with me if I escaped only to bring her a corpse... _

James allowed himself a small smile as he flew the short distance to his safe house.

_What I could use right now is a nice, hot bath._

* * *

He's out! But it's not over, folks… Drop me a line and let me know what you think! 


	5. Questions

Disclaimer: See previous chapters.

No pre-babble this time. Let's get to it!

* * *

James Bond looked like hell – and he knew it, too. Staring in the mirror, the spy wished for nothing more than another chance at Irish. His nose was undoubtedly broken – two large purple bruises resided under his eyes – and there was a rough cut along the right side of his jaw, presumably from one of the times he'd been knocked to the floor. The rest of his body faired no better. Painful bruises mottled his skin – though some were already beginning to lighten to a sickly yellow – and his left arm hung useless at his side.

He calmly stepped into the shower's spray, wincing as the hot water found a dozen more scrapes that he had failed to notice. Grinding his teeth against the pain, he closed his eyes and waited for his muscles to begin relaxing. As James breathed in the steam, he felt his pain ease, even as slight traces of exhaustion set in. He stayed in the shower until the water was no longer warm, then gingerly dried himself off. He dressed in khaki pants and a dark linen shirt, wishing he had something with longer sleeves to hide some of the bruises. Next, he cut a long piece of cloth from some old trousers that would serve as a make-shift sling for his left arm, and a few smaller strips to bind his broken fingers together. After taking two ibuprofen that he found in the bathroom cabinet, James opened the door and stepped from the steam filled room.

Standing was right where Bond had left him – unconscious and trussed up like a chicken on the living room floor. He smiled at the sight. _How the mighty have fallen._ James gingerly lowered himself onto the couch, and began to review his options. The helicopter still waited outside – his safe house was miles away from any trace of civilization, so no one had heard him arrive. There was a car waiting in the garage, and he could easily charter a plane back to London. Bond picked up the phone on the coffee table, and started to dial M's office, but something held him back. Something in Standing's mood and demeanor triggered a mental alarm. Bond searched his memory. For one thing, Standing had been cocky in his boasts, and Bond wanted to know why. What was it that made Standing so sure that he could outmaneuver him? Why did he think he was doing Bond a favor by having him beaten? And why had the man mentioned that he was making a report about him? To whom was that report to be sent, and what did it contain?

_This is personal_, Bond thought,_ and I want answers._ He put the phone back down and settled into the couch. _M will just have to wait._

* * *

Sorry this chapter is short, but it's all I had time to write today! 


	6. Answers

Disclaimer: Same as always…

Sorry, I would have had this done sooner, but I got a little distracted by the last Harry Potter book. No spoilers here, but two words of advice: READ IT! (If you haven't already, that is…)

Okay, back on topic, and back to Bond!

* * *

"Where the hell is he?!"

Villiers cringed as M came bursting out of her office. It seemed her patience had finally reached its limits.

"How long can it take to bring in one man?" She paced in front of his desk, fury written across her features.

"Bond has always been rather… unique in his methods, sir. Perhaps –"

"Perhaps he decided to _**swim**_ to Panama? Because that's the only explanation I can see for taking so long." She stopped and stared him dead in the eye. Only years of experience with her temper kept him from flinching. "Do you know I keep expecting to arrive home and find that he's broken into my apartment again? That I keep checking for remote access of my computer login?"

Villiers remained mute – usually the safest option. "That damned idiot had better check in soon," M threatened as she walked back into her office. "Or I'll –"

The door slammed, cutting her tirade short, and Villiers began to breathe again.

xXx

"Ugh…"

A soft moan from across the room woke Bond from his doze. He shook his head and quickly stood, making his way over to Standing. The man stared up at him – surprise in his eyes as he took in his role reversal from captor to captive. Bond felt his face fall into a predatory smile as he removed Standing's gag.

"Feel free to yell – there's no one around for miles."

Miles blinked, as if trying to clear his thoughts. "How…?"

"Did you get here? Well, it was quite simple once I'd drugged you."

"Drugged…?"

James pushed down his impatience. He would decide later if the man was simply playing at stupidity, or if the drug had some lingering effects. He pulled up one of the small footstools and sat gingerly, making sure his left arm rested against his knee.

"You and I," he began, his voice low, "need to have a talk."

Standing swallowed as fear made his heart race, and Bond promised himself he would not enjoy the man's alarm… too much. "I – I can't tell you anything!" Standing said shrilly.

"I think you can. And I think you will."

_The man looks like he's about to piss himself_, Bond mused. Intimidating though he was, he knew he wasn't the source of the man's true terror. He'd seen what the mysterious organization did to betrayers when Le Chiffre had taken a bullet to the head – Standing had to know what was in store if he so much as opened his mouth.

"I'm sure MI6 would be willing to offer you protection – in exchange for information." Bond was loathe to admit that M would not only let the man live, but would likely save him from retribution. "But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about just now."

Miles relaxed slightly – then looked up at Bond in confusion. "If you're not planning to interrogate me, what do you want?"

"I want answers – to some personal questions." He chose his next words carefully. "I want an explanation of what you did to me." He clenched his jaw, until the urge to kick Standing until he was purple had passed. "You also mentioned a report. I want to know what was in it, and why you were making it."

"I don't know what you're talking ab–"

Bond gave in to his desire for revenge momentarily and punched the man. His broken fingers throbbed, but the pain was worth it to see Standing spit out two of his teeth. Bond raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. His prisoner got the hint.

"Alright…" Standing spat blood onto the carpet. "Can I sit up?" Bond nodded, but made no move to help. A minute later, Standing had propped himself against the wall. He took a deep breath, refusing to look at his captor as he said, "I was assigned to recruit you."

James blinked, incredulity written across his face. "And why the hell did you think I would join your organization?"

"I don't know. I was given intelligence on you, and told to recruit you. That's all."

_Vesper_, Bond thought bitterly. _He knew about Le Chiffre and Vesper._ Aloud, he mused, "So why the 'training'?"

"The beatings were to serve the combined purpose of weakening your resolve and strengthening your ability to withstand pain." Standing looked terrified as Bond clenched one hand into a fist. "I – I didn't lie to you a-about that," he stammered. "It's standard procedure."

"And you expected me to sign up with your group after being tortured _twice_ by its members?"

"H-he said you would. I disagreed, but I c-couldn't go against orders!"

"Who?" Bond questioned, his face a menacing scowl. Though he already knew the answer, he wanted to hear it from Standing's lips.

"White. His name is Mr. White."

* * *

That's it for now! Sorry. My muse can only do so much on four hours of sleep. 


	7. Surprise

Disclaimer: Don't own anything, but I'm anxious to see the next movie!

This chapter is dedicated to Matteic – who wouldn't let me off the hook. Thanks. Sometimes my muse needs a swift kick in the rear. ;-)

* * *

"Mr. White. Is he the leader of your organization?"

"I d-don't know," Standing replied. Bond launched himself from the footstool and grasped the man's left lapel with his right hand – his arm lodged firmly across the man's throat.

"You do not want to lie to me, Standing," Bond hissed menacingly.

"I'm n-not! I swear! I'm not high enough up in the organization to know who's in charge!"

"Why did White give you up?!" Bond yelled in Standing's face. The man went pale.

"W-what?! You've got Mr. White?" Standing bit his lip, and Bond couldn't stop a sneer from crossing his face. He had the man right where he wanted him.

"I personally put a bullet in that bastard's knee, Miles. He's been at MI6 Headquarters for some time. Yours was the first name he dropped. Why was that, do you think?"

"I'm not sure," Standing whispered.

"But you must have some idea," Bond countered. His prisoner stared at the ground.

"Well, I was warned that you were coming, so chances are White sent you to Panama so I could recruit you."

"You were warned?"

"The organization is very wide-spread. I wouldn't be surprised if a few MI6 operatives were on our bankroll. Maybe even M himself."

Bond laughed. "You really must be low-level, Standing, if you don't even know that the current M is a woman."

"I-I told you…"

"But you could still be lying to me."

"Why would I do that?"

"You tell me." Bond released the man in disgust and stood. His muscles ached in protest, but he did his best to ignore them. Glancing out the window, he saw the sun just beginning to sink under the horizon. "It looks like you just earned yourself another night in paradise, Standing. Make yourself comfortable. I'll fly us back to England in the morning." He turned toward the cabin's small bedroom.

"Wait!" Standing called, "You can't leave me out here! Please!" Bond ignored him and shut the door between them. Taking a few more ibuprofen, he laid gingerly down on the bed – falling almost immediately to sleep.

xXx

When he woke up the next morning, he wasn't surprised that his pain had increased. Strained muscles were aggravated by remaining sedentary, and he had slept on his back – where some of the worse bruising lingered. Still, he mused, the result would likely have been the same if he had slept on his side. At least his left arm didn't hurt too much. Popping three pills this time, he ran some water over his face before making his way out to see the prisoner.

"Sleep well, Standing?" he called.

There was no answer.

Bond immediately reached for his gun as he approached the man. He was exactly as Bond had left him – propped up against the wall. There was only one difference. His forehead seemed to have sprouted a small, bloody hole during the night. He was dead. Bond left the cottage to scan the area. There were signs that someone had driven through recently, and he debated following. A quick look around, however, told him that it had rained – probably less than an hour ago. Any other tracks had likely been washed away. He cursed and headed back inside.

With Standing dead, Bond was left with more questions than before. Who had found the safe house? Why kill Standing and leave him alive? And more importantly; what was he going to say to M?

* * *

Okay, so I didn't go to sleep after writing the next chapter of "Hall of Mirrors", but I am going now! Goodnight!

Don't forget to review!


	8. Impasse

Disclaimer: I still do not own James Bond. :-( But I wish I did!

This is the last chapter, as I realized that I could make this fit in seamlessly with the beginning of the _Quantum of Solace_ trailer! As a matter of fact, I used some of the dialogue from the trailer (which I do NOT own, obviously). There will be a few things that don't match up, I suppose, but I did the best I could! This has been a fun story to write, and I just want to say thanks to all those who have waited so patiently for the conclusion!

* * *

The blades of the helicopter whirred, their motion scattering the falling rain. James set down carefully on the nondescript roof and sat back, stretching. His shoulder still ached from the task of loading Standing's corpse, and he wanted nothing more right now than a hot shower and some sleep. Just as he was unbuckling the straps of his harness, he heard a knock on the window. He turned to see M, standing under a massive umbrella – her lips pursed, eyes narrowed. Hiding a smile at the fury etched on her face as she took a step back, Bond opened the door and climbed gingerly out of the helicopter. She softened for an instant as she took stock of his injuries, but they weren't enough to stop her heated exclamation.

"What the hell took you so long?" Villiers stepped up to Bond, offering him an open umbrella. He took it gratefully, and they headed inside.

"Standing knew I was coming. He was waiting for me." James could almost see the wheels in her head turning as she processed the new information. "When I escaped, I took Standing to a nearby safe house. I wasn't in shape to travel far at the time." It was as good an excuse as any. M would never have approved if he told her the truth – that he had wanted to question Standing privately. "When I woke up this morning, he was dead. All traces of the intruder had been washed away in the rain."

M remained silent for a moment. "Was he killed with your gun?" Anyone else might have thought she was accusing him, but Bond knew better. She wanted to make sure no one was framing him for the murder of an unarmed prisoner – Bond had a motive, after all.

"No. Different caliber. And I had my gun with me all night." M nodded, then raised an eyebrow.

"The body?"

"In the helicopter."

"Good." They had arrived at her office. M paused at the door. "Bond… We've reached a bit of a wall with Mr. White. He's hasn't said anything useful beyond Standing's name."

"Have you tried coercion?"

"Everything but shooting his other knee." Bond hid a smile.

"I could get him to talk."

"As a matter of fact, that's just what I was getting to. I have a feeling that seeing you alive and well – and here – might just shake him up a bit. You could always make it seem like Standing told you everything – White might be interested in saving his own skin if that were the case."

"I won't need to bluff. Standing _did_ tell me everything he knew." M just stared at him, waiting. "Unfortunately it wasn't much. Though he did say it was likely that the organization had members in MI6. We have to be careful who we let White talk to."

"Of course," M said, nodding. "So, would you like some time to freshen up, or do you want to see White right away?"

"I'll need a few minutes," Bond replied, tugging off his sling. "It won't rattle White too much if I show up looking like this."

"I agree. Come back here when you're ready."

"Will do."

**xXx**

Three quarters of an hour later, Bond found himself outside interrogation room that held White and two guards. He had changed into a neatly pressed suit, using makeup to hide the visible bruises. M stood with him by the door.

"Are you armed?" she asked.

"No."

"Do your best not to hurt him again."

He stared at the door. "You don't have to worry about me."

M turned the handle and they entered. The room was sparsely furnished, and Bond made a beeline to one of the free chairs, some twenty feet away from White. Reminding himself not to use his left arm, he dragged it closer to the man and sat down. White showed no hint of surprise when he saw him, and Bond decided he would let White do all the talking, for now. The silence didn't last long.

"I was always very interested to meet you. I'd heard so much about you from Vesper." Bond's face was frozen – White would find no emotion there. "If she hadn't killed herself, we would have had you, too."

_That didn't stop you from trying,_ James thought. White was trying to throw him off balance by bringing up Vesper's death, and he had had enough. "Are you going to tell us who you work for?"

"The first thing you should know about us is that… we have people everywhere."

"I know," Bond said simply. White looked at him intensely – trying to gauge how much he knew. James decided to dangle a carrot in front of him. "Standing told me."

White's poker face was intact. "How is Miles?"

"Dead."

"Ah… Well, I can't say I'm surprised. And how did you two get along?"

"Rather well," Bond countered.

"Did you have a nice chat?"

"Yes. It was rather informative."

The proverbial poker game continued in much the same way for another hour. Each man was keeping their cards close to the vest, screening the enemy for telltale signs or twitches. But when M finally called a halt on the interrogation, neither one was any closer to their objectives. Bond followed her out of the room, speaking only once the heavy door had slammed shut.

"Give me five minutes with him – alone. He'll talk."

"How gullible do you think I am, Bond? I know exactly what will happen if I leave you alone with him. He may very well tell you what you want to know, but how can I be sure that what you want to know and what I need from him are the same thing?" She shook her head.

"We want the same thing," he said.

"No," she answered. "I think you want revenge. And I think you don't care who you have to kill along the way to get it."

"I want to finish the job I started. The job you ordered me to do."

M crossed her arms. "All right. If you want to follow orders, I'm ordering you on leave." Bond opened his mouth to protest, but she raised a hand, cutting him off. "You need to heal from your injuries. You're no good to me like this. Go home, Bond." He stared mutely at her. "Report back to my office in two weeks." He nodded, not trusting his voice – she would hear his frustration. Bond turned to leave, mentally relaxing his right hand; it had balled into a fist. "And, Bond?" He turned back, and she glanced at his left arm. "I'm not going to replace the implant just yet. I want to believe I can trust you to do as I ask. Get some rest – see a doctor. Report to me in two weeks."

"Ma'am." He turned and walked brusquely for the elevator. He hated lying to M, but there was no way he could let this go. White _would_ talk.

One way or another.

* * *

**The End!**

I'm sure none of this is going to fit in with the new movie, but I tried!

Thanks for reading! Please leave a review if you liked it. Or even if you didn't. ;-)


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